‘Nothing missing there, Sergeant,’ he declared when he had finished.
His eye wandered round the room. There was not much of value in it; one or two silver bowls—athletic trophies also, a small gold clock of Indian workmanship, a pair of high-power prism binoculars and a few ornaments were about all that could be turned into money. But all these were there, undisturbed. It was true that the glass door of a locked bookcase had been broken to enable the bolt to be unfastened and the doors opened, but none of the books seemed to have been touched.
‘What do you think they were after, sir?’ the sergeant queried. ‘Was there any jewellery in the house that they might have heard of?’
‘My mother has a few trinkets, but I scarcely think you could dignify them by the name of jewellery. I suppose these precious burglars have left no kind of clue?’
‘No, sir, nothing. Except maybe the girls’ descriptions. I’ve telephoned that in to headquarters and the men will be on the lookout.’
‘Good. Well, if you can wait here a few minutes I’ll go and send my mother to bed and then I’ll come back and we can settle what’s to be done.’
Cheyne returned to the drawing-room and told his news. ‘Nothing’s been taken,’ he declared. ‘I’ve been through the safe and everything’s there. And nothing seems to be missing from the room either. The sergeant was asking about your jewels, mother. Have you looked if they’re all right?’
‘It was the first thing I thought of, but they are all in their places. The cabinet I keep them in was certainly examined, for everthing was left topsy-turvey, but nothing is missing.’
‘Very extraordinary,’ Cheyne commented. It seemed to him more than ever clear that these mysterious thieves were after some document which they believed he had, though why they should have supposed he held a valuable document he could not imagine. But the searching first of his pockets and then of his safe and house unmistakably suggested such a conclusion. He wondered if he should advance this theory, then decided he would first hear what the others had to say.
‘Now, mother,’ he went on, ‘it’s past your bedtime, but before you go I wish you would tell me what happened to you. Remember I have heard no details other than what Miss Hazelton mentioned on the telephone.’
Mrs Cheyne answered with some eagerness, evidently anxious to relieve her mind by relating her experiences.
‘The first thing was the telegram,’ she began. ‘Agatha and I were sitting here this afternoon. I was sewing and Agatha was reading the paper—or was it the Spectator, Agatha?’
‘The paper, mother, though that does not really matter.’
‘No, of course it doesn’t matter,’ Mrs Cheyne repeated. It was evident the old lady had had a shock and found it difficult to concentrate her attention. ‘Well, at all events we were sitting here as I have said, sewing and reading, when your telegram was brought in.’
‘My telegram?’ Cheyne queried sharply. ‘What telegram do you mean?’
‘Why, your telegram about Mr Ackfield, of course,’ his mother answered with some petulance. ‘What other telegram could it be? It did not give us much time, but—’
‘But, mother dear, I don’t know what you are talking about. I sent no telegram.’
Agatha made a sudden gesture.
‘There!’ she exclaimed eagerly. ‘What did I say? When we came home and learned what had happened, and thought of your not turning up,’ she glanced at her brother, ‘I said it was only a blind. It was sent to get us away from the house!’
Cheyne shrugged his shoulders good humouredly. What he had half expected had evidently taken place.
‘Dear people,’ he protested, ‘this is worse than getting money from a Scotchman. Do tell me what has happened. You were sitting here this afternoon when you received a telegram. Very well now, what time was that?’
‘What time? Oh, about—what time did the telegram come, Agatha?’
‘Just as the clock was striking four. I heard it strike immediately after the ring.’
‘Good,’ said Cheyne in what he imagined was the manner of a cross-examining K.C. ‘And what was in the telegram?’
The girl was evidently too much upset by her experience to resent his superior tone. She crossed the room, and taking a flimsy pink form from a table, handed it over to him.
The telegram had been sent out from the General Post Office in Plymouth at 3-17 that afternoon, and read:
‘You and Agatha please come without fail to Newton Abbott by 5-15 train to meet self and Ackfield about unexpected financial development. Urgent that you sign papers today. Ackfield will return Plymouth after meeting. You and I shall catch 7-10 home from Newton Abbott.—MAXWELL.’
Three-seventeen; and Parkes left the Edgecombe about three! It seemed pretty certain that he had sent the telegram. But if so, what an amazing amount the man knew about them all! Not only had he known of Cheyne’s war experiences and literary efforts and of his visit that day to the Edgecombe, but now it seemed that he had also known his address, of his mother and sister, and, most amazing thing of all, of the fact that Mr Ackfield of Plymouth was their lawyer and confidential adviser! Moreover, he had evidently known that the ladies were at home as well as that they alone comprised the family. Surely, Cheyne thought, comparatively few people possessed all this knowledge, and the finding of Parkes should therefore be a correspondingly easy task.
‘Extraordinary!’ he said aloud. ‘And what did you do?’
‘We got a taxi,’ Mrs Cheyne answered. ‘Agatha arranged it by telephone from Mrs Hazelton’s. You tell him, Agatha. I’m rather tired.’
The old lady indeed looked worn out and Cheyne interposed a suggestion that she should go at once to bed, leaving Agatha to finish the story. But she refused and her daughter took up the tale.
‘We caught the 5-15 ferry and went on to Newton Abbott. But when the Plymouth train came in there was no sign of you or Mr Ackfield, so we sat in the waiting-room until the 7-10. I telephoned for a taxi to meet the ferry. It brought us to the door about half-past eight, but unfortunately it went away before we found we couldn’t get in.’
‘You rang?’
‘We rang and knocked, but could get no answer. The house was in darkness and we began to fear something was wrong. Then just as I was about to leave mother in the summer-house and run up to the Hazelton’s to see if James was there, he appeared to say that you were staying in Plymouth overnight. He rang and knocked again. But still no one came. Then he tried the windows on the ground floor, but they were all fastened, and at last he got the ladder from the yard and managed to get in through the window of your dressing-room. He came down and opened the door and we got in.’
‘And what did you find?’
‘Nothing at first. We wondered where the maids could possibly have got to, or what could have happened. I found your electric torch and we began to search the rooms. Then we saw that your safe had been broken open and we knew it was burglary. That terrified us on account of the maids and we wondered if they had been decoyed away also. I don’t mind admitting now that I was just shaking with fear lest we should find that they had been injured or even murdered. But it wasn’t so bad as that.’
‘They were tied up?’
‘Yes, we found them in cook’s bedroom, lying on the floor with their hands and feet tied, and gagged. They were both very weak and could scarcely stand when we released them. They told us—but you’d better see them and hear what they have to say. They’re not gone to bed yet.’
‘Yes, I’ll see them directly. What did you do then?’
‘As soon as we were satisfied the burglars had gone James went home to call up the police. Then he came back and we began a second search to see what had been stolen. But the more we looked, the more surprised we became. We couldn’t find that anything had been taken.’
‘Extraordinary!’ Cheyne commented again. ‘And then?’
‘After a time the police came out, and then James went home again to see whether they had been able t
o get in touch with you. He came back and told us you would be here by eleven. He had only just gone when you arrived. I really can’t say how kind and helpful he has been.’
‘Yes, James is a good fellow. Now you and mother get to bed and I’ll fix things up with the police.’
He turned his steps to the kitchen, where he found the two maids shivering over a roaring fire and drinking tea. They stood up as he entered, but he told them to sit down again, asked for a cup for himself, and seating himself on the table chatted pleasantly before obtaining their statements. They had evidently had a bad fright and cook still seemed hysterical. As he sat he looked at them curiously.
Cook was an elderly woman, small and plain and stout. She had been with them since they had bought the house, and though he had not seen much of her, she had always seemed good-tempered and obliging. He had heard his mother speak well of her and he was sorry she should have had so distressing an experience. But he didn’t fancy she would be one to give burglars much trouble.
Susan, the parlourmaid, was of a different quality. She was tall with rather heavy features, and good-looking after a somewhat coarse type. If a trifle sullen in manner, she was competent and by no means a fool, and he felt that nefarious marauders would find her a force to be reckoned with.
By dint of patient questioning he presently knew all they had to tell. It appeared that shortly after the ladies had left a ring had come to the door. Susan had opened it to find two men standing without. One was tall and powerfully built, with dark hair and clean-shaven face, the other small and pale—pale face, pale hair and tiny pale moustache. They had inquired for Mr Maxwell Cheyne, and when she had said he was out the small man had asked if he could write a note. She had brought them into the hall and was turning to go for some paper when the big man had sprung on her and before she could cry out had pressed a handkerchief over her mouth. The small man had shut the door and begun to tie her wrists and ankles. Susan had struggled and in spite of them had succeeded in getting her mouth free and shouting a warning to cook, but she had been immediately overpowered and securely gagged. The men had laid her on the floor of the hall and had seemed about to go upstairs when cook, attracted by Susan’s cry, had appeared at the door leading to the back premises. The two men had instantly rushed over, and in a few seconds cook also lay bound and gagged on the floor. They had then disappeared, apparently to search the house, for in a few minutes they had come back and carried first Susan and then cook to the latter’s room at the far end of the back return. The intruders had then withdrawn, closing the door, and the two women had neither heard nor seen anything further of them.
The whole episode had a curious effect on Cheyne. It seemed, as he considered it, to lose its character of an ordinary breach of the law, punishable by the authorised forces of the Crown, and to take on instead that of a personal struggle between himself and these unknown men. The more he thought of it the more inclined he became to accept the challenge and to pit his own brain and powers against theirs. The mysterious nature of the affair appealed to his sporting instincts, and by the time he rejoined the sergeant in the study, he had made up his mind to keep his own counsel as to the Plymouth incident. He would call up the manager of the Edgecombe, tell him to carry on with his private detective, and have the latter down to Warren Lodge to go into the matter of the burglary.
He found the sergeant attempting ineffectively to discover fingerprints on the smooth walls of the safe, sympathised with him in the difficulty of his task, and asked a number of deliberately futile questions. On the grounds that nothing had been stolen he minimised the gravity of the affair, questioned his power to prosecute should the offenders be forthcoming, and instilled doubts into the other’s mind as to the need for special efforts to run them to earth. Finally, the man explaining that he had finished for the time being, he bade him good-night, locked up the house and went to bed. There he lay for several hours tossing and turning as he puzzled over the affair, before sleep descended to blot out his worries and soothe his eager desire to be on the track of his enemies.
3
The Launch ‘Enid’
For several days after the attempted burglary events in the Cheyne household pursued the even tenor of their way. Cheyne went back to Plymouth on the following morning and interviewed the manager of the Edgecombe, and the day after a quiet, despondent looking man with the air of a small shopkeeper arrived at Warren Lodge and was closeted with Cheyne for a couple of hours. Mr Speedwell, of Horton and Lavender’s Private Detective Agency, listened with attention to the tales of the drugging and the burglary, thenceforward appearing at intervals and making mysterious inquiries on his own account.
On one of these visits he brought with him the report of the analyst relative to the dishes of which Cheyne had partaken at lunch, but this document only increased the mystification the affair had caused. No trace of drugs was discernable in any of the food or drink in question, and as the soiled plates or glasses or cups of all the courses were available for examination, the question of how the drug had been administered—or alternatively whether it really had been administered—began to seem almost insoluble. The cocktail taken with Parkes before lunch was the only item of which a portion could not be analysed, but the evidence of the barmaid proved conclusively that Parkes could not have tampered with it.
But in spite of the analysis, the coffee still seemed the doubtful item. Cheyne’s sleepy feeling had come one very rapidly immediately after drinking the coffee, before which he had not felt the slightest abnormal symptoms. Mr Speedwell laid stress on this point, though he was pessimistic about the whole affair.
‘They know what they’re about, does this gang,’ he admitted ruefully as he and Cheyne were discussing matters. ‘That man in the hotel that called himself Parkes—if we found him tomorrow we should have precious little against him. However he managed it, we can’t prove he drugged you. In fact it’s the other way round. He can prove on our evidence that he didn’t.’
‘It looks like it. You haven’t been able to find out anything about him?’
‘Not a thing, sir; that is, not what would be any use. I can prove that he sent your telegram all right; the girl in the Post Office recognised his description. But I couldn’t get on to his trail after that. I’ve tried the stations and the docks and the posting establishments and the hotels and I can’t get a trace. But of course I’ll maybe get it yet.’
‘What about the address given on his card?’
‘Tried that first thing. No good. No one of the name known in the district.’
‘When did the man arrive at the hotel?’
‘Just after you did, Mr Cheyne. He probably picked you up somewhere else and was following you to see where you’d get lunch.’
‘Oh, well, that explains something. I was wondering how he knew I was going to the Edgecombe.’
‘It doesn’t explain so very much, sir. Question still is, how did he get all that other information about you; the name of your lawyer and so on?’
Cheyne had to admit that the prospects of clearing up the affair were not rosy. ‘But what about the burglary?’ he went on more hopefully. ‘That should be an easier nut to crack.’
Speedwell was still pessimistic.
‘I don’t know about that, sir,’ he answered gloomily. ‘There’s not much to go on there either. The only chance is to trace the men’s arrival or departure. Now individually the private detective is every bit as good as the police; better, in fact, because he’s not so tied up with red tape. But he hasn’t their organisation. In a case like this, when the police with their enormous organisation have failed, the private detective hasn’t a big chance. However, of course I’ve not given up.’
He paused, and then drawing a little closer to Cheyne and lowering his voice, he went on impressively: ‘You know, sir, I hope you’ll not consider me out of place in saying it, but I had hoped to get my best clue from yourself. There can be no doubt that these men are after some paper that you have, or tha
t they think you have. If you could tell me what it was, it might make all the difference.’
Cheyne made a gesture of impatience.
‘Don’t I know that,’ he cried. ‘Haven’t I been racking my brains over that question since ever the thing happened! I can’t think of anything. In fact, I can tell you there was nothing—nothing that I know of any way,’ he added helplessly.
Speedwell nodded and a sly look came into his eyes.
‘Well, sir, if you can’t tell, you can’t, and that’s all there is to it.’ He paused as if to refer to some other matter, then apparently thinking better of it, concluded: ‘You have my address, and if anything should occur to you I hope you’ll let me know without delay.’
When Speedwell had taken his departure Cheyne sat on in the study, thinking over the problem the other had presented, but as he did so he had no idea that before that very day was out he should himself have received information which would clear up the point at issue, as well as a good many of the other puzzling features of the strange events in which he had become involved.
Shortly after lunch, then, on this day, the eighth after the burglary and drugging, Cheyne on re-entering the house after a stroll round the garden, was handed a card and told that the owner was waiting to see him in his study. Mr Arthur Lamson, of 17 Acacia Terrace, Bland Road, Devonport, proved to be a youngish man of middle height and build, with the ruggedly chiselled features usually termed hard-bitten, a thick black toothbrush moustache and glasses. Cheyne was not particularly prepossessed by his appearance, but he spoke in an educated way and had the easy polish of a man of the world.
‘I have to apologise for this intrusion, Mr Cheyne,’ he began in a pleasant tone, ‘but the fact is I wondered whether I could interest you in a small invention of mine. I got your name from Messrs Holt & Stavenage, the Plymouth ship chandlers. They told me you dealt with them and how keen you were on yachting, and as my invention relates to the navigation of coasting craft, I hoped you might allow me to show it to you.’
Inspector French and the Cheyne Mystery Page 3
